Thought of strangers moving through his sheds.
Thought of weather.
Thought of coyotes near the calf pen.
Thought of bills piling on the counter without him there to pretend ignoring them was not its own kind of bookkeeping.
“What about my dog?” he asked.
“Roy Turner agreed to take him for the duration.”
Of course Roy had.
Small towns were always two steps ahead of a man’s pride.
By evening Hank had packed one duffel bag.
Jeans.
Boots.
Three work shirts.
A framed photo of Ellen he did not remember putting in there until he found it between his socks.
He stood in the kitchen longer than necessary before leaving.
You notice stupid things when you fear loss.
A crack in the counter laminate.
The dent on the fridge from when Brooke had backed her tricycle into it at age five.
The faded curtain above the sink Ellen kept saying she would replace “when we’ve got money to waste on pretty.”
He locked the door out of habit.
Then looked up and saw three different people already inside the perimeter, working under temporary lights.
The lock felt almost theatrical.
The lodge was set beside a long narrow lake with pine trees around it and a gravel path looping through the property. It had rocking chairs on the porch, a dining hall with polished wood beams, and clean rooms that smelled faintly of cedar and detergent.
The woman at the desk smiled too much.
“Welcome, Mr. Mercer. We’ve got you in room 204. Breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, supper at six.”
He took the key and wanted to ask whether there was also a menu for humiliation.
Instead he said nothing.
His room looked like a place built to calm people.
Cream walls.
Neat blankets.
A lamp with warm light.
A small desk.
A window over the lake.
Hank hated it on sight.
Not because it was ugly.
Because it was comfortable in a way that made grief feel wasteful.
He did not want a lake view.
He wanted to be home worrying in his own chair.
The first night he barely slept.
He kept thinking he heard tractor engines.
Kept half-waking with the urge to check the pump house.
At six the next morning he was already outside with coffee from the dining hall, standing at the edge of the lake like it had personally insulted him.
He called Roy.
“How’s Duke?” he asked.
“Mad at me for not being you,” Roy said. “Which means he’s normal.”
“Any trouble at the farm?”
“Hard to say. Looks like they’ve got half the county there. Big excavator came in at dawn.”
